Dreams are Deceptive
by Johnlockedweirdo
Summary: John Watson tries finding a new flatmate. However, it isn't really what he expected, for his flatmate is quite... extraordinary
1. An Introduction

This headache had been torturing me for about an hour now. I looked up at the blinds, which still didn't show any sign of the sun, but I got up anyway. As I sat there, legs dangling over the edge, my hand automatically reached for my cane. I left my hand hanging in mid-air and lowered it again. _Darn thing._ I reached out once more and grasped the handle. One by one, starting with my pinkie, my fingers bent around it. I got up, preparing myself for the massive pain it brings me each morning, but didn't feel anything. Maybe my headache is so severe I can't even feel my leg. My feet shuffled over the floor on my way to the sink. I got myself a glass to fill with water and looked up. A weary old man stared back at me. His short greying hair messy, his eyes sunken and full of grief and sorrow, enough for a lifetime. The dark circles underneath betrayed the short amount of sleep he'd gotten the past few nights. A stubble was noticeable on his bony jawline. Slowly, I raised my hand and stroke my fingertips against it. _Look at this, this is pathetic!_ I shook myself out of my thoughts and filled my glass. Ignoring the mirror on the wall, I walked back to a small cabinet next to the old blanket covering the thin mattress, which was supposed to be my bed, and reached for the shaver in the top drawer. My revolver lay in front of it, but I shoved it aside. As I started shaving my stubble off, my eye caught sight of the shiny ebony-coloured weapon, but I decided not to give it a chance of bringing horrid memories back and closed the drawer at once. The inside of my head was still throbbing heavily and I couldn't think straight. I traced my cheeks in order to check for any stubborn hairs I had missed and found quite a few, to my great annoyance, and straightened the baggy skin. It was only after numerous tries my skin was smooth, apart from the wrinkles and the looseness. I took a sip from the water and closed my eyes as I felt the cold liquid travelling its way down to my empty stomach. When the cold, tingly feeling had passed, I turned around to the socket in order to pull the plug out and put the razor back where it came from. I only realised I would have to open the top drawer again when I rolled up the cable. I took a deep breath and pulled on the handle, bolted to the cabinet, and saw it laying there. The weapon with which I had killed. The Afghan war had taken many of my friends. 5th Northumberland Fusiliers was everything I had and now I'd retired. Subconsciously I picked it up and moved my hand up and down, as if I were to weigh it. I had to build up a life again, but I can't afford an apartment on my own. Sunken in my thoughts I didn't realise the sun had starting peeking over the edge of the horizon, but when I saw my shadow fall in front of me, I got up and closed the drawer, after having placed my weapon back in there. Looking at my cane once more I stepped away from the bed. I took my phone from the table and clicked the home button for it to light up. Actually it wasn't really _my_ phone. I'd gotten it. As a present. The only thing I really owned. Friday 29th of January, 07:47. One message: "Don't forget to write about your day." She wanted be to write about everything that happened to me. Nothing ever happens to me.


	2. A Strange Meeting

As I made my way through the park, in my head still the marching pace _Left_ right _left_ right _._ Always stressing the 'left'. I could still hear the commands. The shouting voices of other men, then higher ranked. Not all too long ago I had received the title of captain. Third rank in the army. Years and years of service in Afghanistan. And now I was walking through Russel Square Gardens, stressing the alternative step. Left _right_ left _right._ My cane held the tempo and my left leg hopped along. _Damn injury._ "John, John Watson" a man called behind me. I stopped, turned, unsure whom to expect, and saw a plump short man walking up to me. "Stamford," he said, while gesturing to himself, "Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together." Then it hit me. We had studied together, years ago, at St Bart's Hospital. "Ah yes, sorry, yes, hi" I managed to answer. I wasn't really prepared for human interaction and before I knew it we were sipping take-away coffee on a bench. Trying to break the awkward silence I asked if he was still at Bart's. Turns out he's teaching now. "What about you?" he asked, "staying in town, trying to get yourself sorted?" "Well, I can't afford London on an army pension." I saw him thinking. He suggested I looked for a flatmate. I snorted. "Is this a joke? Who'd want me for a flatmate?" I took the last sip from my coffee. _Ah, that's gross._ I squinted at the feeling of the cold, bitter liquid running down my esophagus. Mike chuckled. _What now?_ "You're the second person to say that to me today" he said with a tiny smirk on his round face. "Yeah? Who was the first?" I replied. I wasn't exactly sure what to think at the point where we were walking towards the hospital. Was it a colleague of Mike's or just a friend? I had no clue what to expect.

The room we walked into was filled with all sorts of lab-equipment. "Bit different from my day" I said while looking around. Mike gave a soft hum as a reply, which made me realise I'd said it out loud. On the rightmost table, several microscopes were lined up. Behind one of them sat a slender, tall-looking man with silky dark brown curls. "Mike," his deep voice echoed through the air, "can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." He didn't even look up from his work, while stretching out a bony hand, palm facing upwards. "What's wrong with the landline?" The man looked up, but bowed down to his work again, not any more than a side glance to me. "I prefer to text." The undertone in his voice was sharp. Mike tapped on his pockets to feel if his phone was in there somewhere. He apologised that his phone was in his jacket. I hesitated, but eventually reached into my own pocket. "Here, use mine" I proposed. The man looked up. The light reflected wonderfully in his deep blue eyes. His visage softened and he grew a small, gentle smile. "Ah thank you" he said, as he took the device from my stretched out hand. He activated it and started typing. In between, he glanced over a few times. After a short moment he suddenly spoke again: "Afghanistan or Irak?" I was very confused. Why would he ask such a question? I looked over my shoulder, to Stamford, who, in reply, simply smiled. In the meantime, the tall man looked up at me again with a questioning hum. "Sorry?" I spoke my thoughts out loud. "Which was it, Afghanistan or Irak?" He went on typing. "Afghanistan," I replied, "sorry, how-" I was interrupted by the opening of the door. "Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you" the man said delighted. I got my phone back on that moment. A young woman, I'd say in her twenties, walked in, face down, with a cup in her hand. She handed it over. As he took the it from her, he looked at her with a frown. "What happened to the lipstick?" "It wasn't working for me" she said softly. "Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's… too small now." He turned around, walking back, and moved his fingers before his mouth when saying 'small' before taking a sip of his drink. The woman, whose name was apparently Molly, turned a little insecure. She looked to the ground as the man put his mug down and stared into the microscope, while still standing. "How do you feel about the violin?" Molly walked out, so I got to the conclusion the question was directed at me, but to be sure I asked him to repeat it for me. "I play the violin when I'm thinking… and sometimes I don't talk for days on end," he said in reply, "would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He looked at me with an adoring gaze. Innocent and open. I let it all sink in and turned to Mike. "You- you told him about me?" "Not a word" he answered while shaking his head softly. I thought for a moment. Altering my weight from one leg to another, I looked up at the stranger: "Then who said anything about flatmates?" Without missing a beat he answered that he had done so. While grabbing a long, dark blue coat with a large collar, he explained he had spoken to Stamford that morning about how difficult it must be for him to find a flatmate for. "And now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend, clearly just returned from military service in Afghanistan. Was no difficult leap" he ranted on without taking excessive, noticeable breaths. He ended his explanation while turning around to me and putting on a blue scarf. Strangely enough he left his collar turned up. It made him look… rather mysterious. I still had a question for him: how did he know about Afghanistan? He ignored my comment and started his own new sentence: "I've got my eye on a place in central London, together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o' clock. Sorry, gotta dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." Was this a joke? This man tells me who _I_ am, but didn't say a word about himself. I wasn't gonna let that happen. "It that it?" I asked him as he opened the door. He let go and turned around. "Is that _what_?" He sounded sincerely confused. Following his turn, the man walked up to me with a slow pace, the heels of his shoes clacking, and put his hands in his pockets. "We've only just met and we're gonna go look for a flat?" I said. He looked at Mike as if he'd done something wrong without knowing what and then back at me. "Problem?" Now I looked at Mike, and back. I decided to spell it out for him. Apparently he had no idea what I was talking about. "We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name…" He didn't respond immediately. He just looked at me. "I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan," he began talking incredibly fast, hardly moving his lips and occasionally moving his head a little, "I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him - possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic," he looked down at my leg with a raised brow, " - quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He moved in place before walking towards the door to open it once more. Before walking out, he peeked around the door with his head and said: "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." He winked and saluted before walking away. _How on earth-_ I couldn't believe it. _What?_ Apparently I had that look on my face, because Stamford answered. "Yeah… he's always like that.


	3. The First Day With Sherlock Holmes

I came home to my temporary apartment. The apple I'd placed on the table still lay there, untouched. Without further ado I placed my cane against the wooden chair in front of the table and opened the drawer underneath to get my laptop out. As I logged in, I sat down as well. I opened a quest search tab and typed 'Sherlock Holmes'. To be sure I checked the images first. The man on my screen luckily resembled the one I'd met less than an hour ago. I went back to the regular search and opened his website. The science of deduction. That's unusual, not exactly what expected. On the site weren't many articles. I decided to click one. Mister Holmes could distinguish 43 types of tobacco ash, so he wrote. Also, he could identify a pilot by his left thumb and a software designer by his tie. Not sure if I should believe that. There I sat, behind the screen, staring at small letters describing Sherlock Holmes. I closed the screen onto the keyboard and left my hand on top of it. Sherlock Holmes. A gentleman with a certain flare of mystery. Who was this man? Why did he give me this weirdly pleasant feeling the moment we looked each other in the eye? His deep blue irises were still on my retina. I could relive the moment he looked up. A delightful shiver ran down my spine. This man was special, I was sure of it, but how? With these questions circling in my head I lay down on my bed. I couldn't sleep for another hour. All I could think about was the tall, dark-haired man.

I didn't really do much the next day. I looked up the directions to my potential future flat, not just once. Over and over again I typed in the address. By lunchtime I knew the way by heart. Also I knew I'd recognise it by a café right next-door. I felt restless. Was it nerves? Maybe… but why would I feel nervous about looking at a flat with some bloke? I walked to my bed and back several times. I drank, what, three glasses of water, continuously hoping the time would pass a little faster, just to get it over with. It felt like weeks, waiting for the clock to show six thirty. It was just a fifteen-minute walk, but to be sure I counted double in case something would happen that would delay my arrival. At six thirty precisely I stood on the sidewalk in front of my door. I visualised the turns I had to take next with every ten steps. There it was, the red sunshade belonging to "Speedy's", the café. I walked towards the black door of the house. Golden letters read '221B' and a rectangular beater hung underneath. I reached out for the doorbell on the far right, when I heard a voice from behind me: "Hello." I turned around to see Sherlock Holmes pay a cabbie. "Mister Holmes" I answered. I wasn't sure how to address him. "Sherlock, please" he said, with a very kind smile, as he took my stretched out hand. Together we walked back to the door. I could read from his face he didn't know what to say. "Prime spot, got to be expensive" I tried as an ice-breaker. Sherlock ringed the bell. "Misses Hudson, the land lady, is giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour," he said while turning his head to me, "few years ago, her husband got himself sentenced to death. I was able to help out." His last words got me confused. "You stopped her husband being executed?" I asked full of disbelief. "Oh no," a smile grew on his face, "I ensured it." Before I could ask any further, the door was being opened. A small, jolly lady in her middle years stepped forward and threw her arms around his neck. She greeted him happily and let him know that she would appreciate it if he notified her if he was planning to come home, before she showed us in. Two staircases led up to a roomy apartment. Newspapers were stacked up everywhere, several computers lay around, books all over the floor and a skull resting on the mantelpiece apart from several other things. Needless to say, it was a chaotic view. "This could be very nice," I stated, "very nice indeed." Sherlock looked pleased. "Yes, I thought so. My thoughts exactly… so I moved in already" he said while I said: "Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out." We looked at each other, both confused at the other's answer. Sherlock cleared his throat and, embarrassed, turned around to organise a messy stack of papers. I pointed out the skull. "A friend of mine," he clarified, "and when I say friend-" Mrs. Hudson came walking in and interrupted him: "What do you think, doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two." I was startled and blurted out "of course we'll be needing two." I looked at Sherlock, who didn't have a shocked expression at all. He simply smiled gently.

"Oh don't worry, dear," the lady started, "there's all sorts 'round here. Mrs. Turner next door has got married ones." Changing subject, she started scolding Sherlock for the mess he'd made, especially in the kitchen, which was full of all sorts of laboratory equipment. The tall man scurried around a little, straightening things up, closing laptops. I turned around to him, my cane supporting me as I did so, and admired him for a while. He looked up at me every now and then. "I looked you up on the internet last night" I said, in attempt to break the ice once again. "Oh," he said, while turning to me and straightening his back, "anything interesting?" I thought for a second: " found your website: 'The Science of Deduction'?" I implied as a question. A smile grew on the man's face. "What did you think?" he asked in return, seemingly proud. His smile disappeared when I turned my head sideways. "You said you could identify a software designer by his tie, and an airline pilot by his left thumb." I decided to try and get an answer to the questions that had popped up in my head the night before. "Yes, and I can read your military career in your face and leg and your brother's drinking habits from your phone." "How?" I simply couldn't believe what was happening. It had all happened yesterday and yet the same amazement boiled up inside me. However, I was still confused. I really wanted to know more about this man. Who is he? Yes sure, Sherlock Holmes, but who _is_ he? I chuckled softly and shook my head, while looking down at my feet. In my thinking process I hadn't noticed that Mrs. Hudson walked towards Sherlock with a newspaper in her hand and asked him about the three suicides that had taken place in the past few days. A siren wailed in the street and I could see the lights flickering on the houses opposite ours. The police car stopped and Sherlock, who was standing at the window, simply said: "Four." Mrs. Hudson asked him what he meant, to which he replied with "there's been a fourth. And there's something different this time." Mrs. Hudson asked him how he knew. Sherlock pointed out the window. In the meantime a man, I'd say in his late thirties, came running up the stairs. Sherlock didn't greet him or anything, but instead asked where. "Brixton. Lauriston Gardens" he said, still panting. "What's different about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something new." Sherlock asked the officer. "You know how they never leave notes?" he explained, "this one did. Will you come?" Sherlock looked away to think. "Who's on forensics?" The man sighed "Anderson." Sherlock sighed too, but it was more of an annoyed huff, as he looked away. "Anderson won't work with me" he snarled. "He won't be your _assistant"_ the man tried desperately. "I _need_ and assistant" Sherlock answered. The man's expression was pitiful and sunken. "Will you come?" he asked once more. Sherlock thought for a moment and said: "Not in a police car. I'll be right behind you." The man smiled gratefully and turned around with a nod to both me and Mrs. Hudson before walking out again. When he was just gone, Sherlock jumped up in the air like a small child, his fists clenched in front of him, letting out a squeal of happiness. "Brilliant!" I didn't know how to react. This man, whoever he really was, was happy about… a suicide? He leapt over to his desk and scurried through his stuff, picking up a small package from beneath some papers. "I thought it would be a boring evening. Serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas!" With a small number of big steps, he went through the door. Probably while fetching his coat, he yelled a few words to Mrs. Hudson, to which she replied with "I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper." I was startled, not understanding a lot of what was going on. I walked to the line which split the kitchen from the living room. There, two big chairs faced each other. I propped up one of the cushions and sat down on one, while picking up the newspaper. 'Third suicide found' it said. Underneath the headline, a picture of a man. I thought I recognised him, and when I looked closer I realised it was the man who had come bearing the news about the fourth. The subscription to the picture said: 'DI Lestrade, in charge of investigation.' Mrs. Hudson had a sympathetic smile on her small face. "Oh, look at him, dashing about. My husband was just the same," she paused for a moment, looking down at me. I didn't look back, but I could feel her gaze wandering over me. After a while she added: "But you're more the sitting down type, I can tell. I'll make you a cuppa, you rest your leg." Upon hearing those last words a feeling of rage raced through my body.

"DAMN MY LEG" I shouted at her, slamming down the newspaper on my lap. She jumped. Realising what I'd done, I apologized to her. I couldn't help it. I don't want people to pity me, especially not about my injury. "I understand, dear, I've got a hip" she said sweetly, while placing a hand on said body part. To make it up to her I said: "a cup of tea would be lovely, thanks." She walked out the door to her own apartment. "Just this once, dear, I'm not your housekeeper" she said as she turned around. Carefully I added "Couple of biscuits too, if you've got them." "Not your housekeeper" she repeated. I took out my phone from my pocket, repeating Sherlock's words in my head " _I can read your military career in your face and leg and your brother's drinking habits from your phone."_ How on earth is that possible? My thoughts were pierced by a deep, somewhat familiar, voice. "You're a doctor," Sherlock stood in the doorway, "in fact, you're an army doctor." I stood up, partly out of habit, partly not knowing why, and cleared my throat. "Yeah, yeah I am." "Any good?" "Very good." Sherlock looked at me and smiled, but turned serious again when going on talking. "Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths?" I nodded as an answer, in combination with "well… yes." "Bit of trouble too, I bet." His eyes showed a flicker of joy, but that was all I could read from his face. "Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much." I didn't know where he was going with this. "Care to see some more?" he said after a short while. "Oh god yes!" I blurted out. Sherlock grinned widely.

Hey you guys, I'm sorry it took so long. I'm having a bit of a dilemma here. So obviously what I've written now is all canon. It _will_ take a while before I will actually start my own part. My question to you, readers, is the following: shall I, or shall I not write everything out from John's perspective. Of course, a lot will be the same as in the series, but everyone knows exactly what is going to happen. I would change some minor things and of course write John's thoughts down with them, but it will take an eternity for me to reach the Johnlock part. I will write some scenes out anyway, because I want to write down what I would imagine John thinking about, but that's a lot less in comparison. Please let me know in a review or in a comment (or PM) what you think I should do. I really enjoy writing this and hope you enjoy reading, but I don't want to bore you. I can't believe so many of you have visited my story. Please let me know what you think of my writing style. I'd love to hear from you guys.


	4. Help

Weeks passed, months, years. We were constantly investigating all sorts of crimes Scotland Yard didn't get further on. The cases kept flooding in. More and more people came to us with the weirdest stories. The visitor count of my blog augmented, Sherlock was all over the news. Every time we'd step out of that door, paparazzi lined up with flashing camera's and reporter microphones. A case about a painting of the Reichenbach Falls brought us the unwanted fame. I don't think Sherlock liked being followed by the press everywhere, and I most certainly didn't either. I tried suggesting he'd leave some cases untouched, but of course he didn't listen. Maybe just because he didn't want people thinking he wouldn't be able to, which illustrates that Sherlock liked to be applauded for his extraordinary skills, even though he didn't pay all that much attention to it. Honestly, he _is_ a bit of a show off.

Then Moriarty struck again. He broke into the Bank of England and Pentonville Prison via his mobile phone. Apart from this being almost impossible, he didn't take a dime from the vault. His third crime included breaking the bulletproof glass surrounding the crown jewels after having written "Get Sherlock" on, before smashing it, for the surveillance camera to see properly, and seating himself on the throne, crown on his head, sceptre in his hand and the mantle hanging from his shoulders. Just like that, he let himself get arrested. Sherlock was called in to testify the court case. Unsurprisingly, he didn't take my advice on not being the arrogant know-it-all he is. After his testimony, Sherlock left. I stayed to see what the verdict would be. To my shock, he was found not guilty. When I phoned Sherlock to tell him, he didn't seem surprised at all and broke the connection.

In the days that followed, strange cases, including the kidnapped children of the British Ambassador to the US, somehow hinted Sherlock was at least accessary in the crimes. Sergeant Donovan started, but soon many people had seeds of doubt planted inside of them. Doubt, which lead to serious accusations. It was said Sherlock had committed all the crimes himself, only to flawlessly solve the cases afterwards, taking the credit and fame. I knew this wasn't true, but I couldn't help thinking about it anyways. Shortly after, Greg came in. Sherlock refused even before the question was put. They wanted him to come to the station to be interrogated. Sherlock refused to come willingly. I told him he should've just gone with him, because refusing a simple interrogation at the station would cause even more doubt to boil up. At that moment, Sherlock lost it. He yelled at me: "Moriarty's playing with your mind, too, can't you _see_ what's going on!" He went so far he slammed his fist on the table. I was actually scared at the time. I hated it, but perhaps Sherlock hadn't said such an odd thing after all; Somewhere the doubt was nagging me. Not much later Lestrade returned with a team to arrest Sherlock involuntarily. He was cuffed and brought downstairs. The Chief Superintendent came in afterwards and said Sherlock looked a bit like a weirdo, which you see more often in those 'vigilante types'. My anger took over and I punched him right on the nose. I was cuffed and brought downstairs as well. After a short moment Sherlock put an escaping plan in action. First, he distracted the entire force and stole a gun in the fuss. With that gun, he fired two bullets in the air, while ordering all the police to get on their knees, putting the gun against my head afterwards to state I was his hostage. I felt my heart-rate shoot up, as adrenaline rushed from my head to my toes. Next, Sherlock told me we would become fugitives and run.

Everything went downhill from that moment on. The press became more negative by the day, the seeds of doubt grew bigger and bigger. I could see Sherlock slowly being crushed. One journalist, Kitty Riley, wrote about him in a rather nasty way and we decided we'd pay her a visit, to clear thing up a bit, but we did not expect to find him there. Moriarty, but not with the sleek, professional look; he had grown a healthy stubble and his hair was all messy. Both Kitty and Moriarty tried convincing me Sherlock had hired 'Richard Brook' as an actor to play master villain. I couldn't handle the rage building up inside me and yelled at him. He kept defending himself, and Kitty helped, showing us DVD's and articles in magazines, describing the actor and storyteller Richard Brook. The tiny monster of doubt, that had been bothering me for a long while now, had now suddenly grown to an unpleasantly large size, and it was snarling at my heart and idealistic views of Sherlock, ready to tear them apart, inch by inch. Sherlock couldn't speak, he was white as a sheet. I begged him to explain, but not a sound came from the 'once wonderful' Sherlock Holmes. Kitty and the seemingly terrified Moriarty, or was it really the actor Richard Brook Sherlock had hired, only made things worse. Doubt and guilt literally clouded my mind and Sherlock was still on mute. If only I'd known then, what would happen in a matter of days, I would've reacted differently. But I didn't know. I couldn't have known…

To this day I don't forgive myself. It's like a part of my heart was amputated and the remains crushed inside my chest. The heavy pain is unbearable. Every day, the flashback returns. Not one day does my head grant me rest, not one day do my eyes not water until they dry out entirely, not one day does my throat not feel like burning sandpaper. My chest aches so badly day after day. I can't bear going back to 221B Bakerstreet. I don't think I can handle seeing all his stuff. The mess he left behind, piles of unfinished work, the smell of his cologne thinned out throughout the apartment. The only times I see Mrs. Hudson is when we visit the graveyard together, which becomes less and less. She thinks it'll do me good if I limit my visits to once every two weeks, so we do: we go there together and she leaves me there for a while, but makes sure I get home safely. What she doesn't know, however, is that I visit the grave almost daily, crying there for about an hour, talking to his remains, buried deep under the dirt. It seems silly, but I keep doing it.

Today's another day. I take a deep breath as I open the cabinet drawer. As I stare at the weapon it comes back to my retina. The moment he disappeared behind the small house in between me and the hospital. Next, his lifeless body lying there and not even a second later his blood-covered face as he is being turned around. I close my eyes and breathe out through my nose while turning my head sideways, feeling the massive pain in my chest, as though a burning dagger pierced right through my heart, roasting the flesh while puncturing it. I suck in a breath with my nose as I open my eyes again. Without thinking too much about it I pick up the gun, make sure it's loaded and walk to the hall to put on my coat and stuff the pistol in the right pocket. Outside I stop a cab to take me to the cemetery. This might as well be a one-way trip, the last I'll ever make.

Once I arrive, I make my way to one particular stone, placed right next to a tree. 'SHERLOCK HOLMES' it says in simple golden letters on a shiny black stone. I decided I wouldn't have anything else written on it, since not many people know him personally and it wouldn't really matter all that much to them and I knew Sherlock himself wouldn't have cared at all. As usual, I begin by simply touching the headstone, letting out a sigh as memories come back. I can't hold back tears. "Sherlock," my hoarse voice starts, "why? Why would you leave me- all alone?" My breath stopped in my throat and it cut off all the sound. Only now I realise I have sunk down to one knee, supporting myself on the shrine. "Sher- Sherlock, I can't do this, not anymore. Not without you. Even though you piss -pissed- me off loads of times. I'd much rather have that every single day for the rest of my otherwise miserable life, than having to live one more day without you. You have no idea how much you mean -meant- to me." Every time I have to correct myself another 'knife' thrusts into my chest and the tears roll down my cheek. "Ever since we first met- I know I have told you this very often -at least to whatever remains are left- there has been a special something. Something I haven't been able to explain, and to be fair, I still can't. But since it doesn't matter to anyone, why would I still bother trying?" My throat hurts from all the crying and I turn around on the ground, so my back leans against his carved-in name. I throw my head back is despair. "I'm sorry I'm so bad with words today, Sherlock, it seems unfair. I just wanted to let you know," I say softly as I get my gun out of my pocket, "I'm ending it, too. Soon we will be together for ever. I'm sorry. I should be strong, helping others coping with your loss, like a good friend would do, but I feel like I can't do anything but be selfish at this point, even though there wouldn't be a lot of people I could possibly help. So, all in all, this is _my_ note, Sherlock. I can't cope with your loss. I feel it literally tearing me apart." I look down at my upper legs, in which I hold my weapon with both hands, barely seeing anything at all, due to the tears welled up. It's all a big blur and I can barely make out the contour of my pistol in my hands. After blinking away excessive tears, which are replaced immediately, I cock the gun. I let out a painful cry. More and more tears fall down to my now shaking hands. I bring my right hand, which holds the gun, up to my temple, shaking uncontrollably. I feel my entire body shaking, my vision is blurred to a new maximum, the crying sounds my burning throat forms, fade away quickly after they've escaped my mouth and I feel the body-warmed, yet still cold, metal against the side of my face at eye-level. "I'm sorry I'm letting you down, Sherlock, but I can't think of anything else" I whisper. I suck in one last breath. Then suddenly everything stops: " _JOHN!_ " The clouds in my mind are replaced by clear blankness. A blurred figure seems to be running towards me. "John!" he repeats, "put the gun down!" I hesitate, but follow his commands, even though I haven't placed the voice with a face quite yet. "John," he says once more, as he crouches down next to me, taking the gun from my hand, unloading it, "what are you doing?" I can't speak. I can barely move, only shake heavily. I try to catch my breath, but I can't even inhale properly. The man embraces me, but I can't find the energy to lift up my arms to place them around his shoulders, so I just lean my head into his shoulder. It's not as broad and bony as Sherlock's used to be and I can smell his strong cologne, which is also different from Sherlock's. I know it couldn't have been him, but somehow I keep hoping he'll come back. It seems like an eternity before I feel simple shivering replacing the heavy shaking and I can finally breathe regularly again. Only then I realise the voice calming me is Greg's. He takes my shoulders in his hands, stretching out his arms, so he can look me in the eye. He is dead serious and looks very concerned. "How did you get here?" he asks me. I answer him honestly. He continues to help me up, storing my weapon in his own pocket, and leads me to the police car he came in. He makes sure I sit properly, seat belt fastened, before he closes the door of the passenger seat and walks over to the driver's seat, not breaking eye contact with me. I let it all pass, not thinking too much, as we drive to the station, where he sits me down in an empty room. Silently, I let more tears roll down my face, partly thankful tears, partly scared of what I almost did, as the DI boils up water for tea.

After having told him everything Lestrade drives me home. I'm still covered in the shock-blanket he put over my shoulders during the conversation, which mainly consisted of me explaining what I had been planning on doing ever since our best friend's death, and him reacting shocked. When we get to my apartment, Greg opens the front door for me, turns on the lights, helps me get ready for bed and makes sure I lay down well, before he turns off the lights in my room and walks out. I feel my eyelids getting heavier by the second and don't try to resist. Within no-time my surroundings are blocked out of my head.


End file.
